


all my previous dreams

by coricomile



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Fae & Fairies, M/M, Magical Realism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-29
Updated: 2018-06-29
Packaged: 2019-05-21 19:38:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,986
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14921600
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coricomile/pseuds/coricomile
Summary: "What what?" Zhenya asks. Sidney points to the statute, not quite touching it. The plate next to it is empty, but that doesn't mean anything. "Is for-" Zhenya has come a long way with English, but he doesn't really know words to explain something as old and as magic as a domovoi. "Protect. Watch house, watch dog. Watch family."





	all my previous dreams

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Why_so_drama](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Why_so_drama/gifts).



> For why_so_drama. There is magical realism, fairies, and blink-and-you'll-miss-it soulbonding ahead, and I really hope you enjoy all of it!
> 
> If you're interested in learning more about [Domovoi](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Domovoy), it's interesting, but I also took, uh, a lot of liberties with how they work. 
> 
> Big thank you to wjgravity and penstotheend for the beta!

Zhenya has his house built after his second year in Pittsburgh, when he's been told that they want to make him a cornerstone of the franchise. He doesn't do much in the way of planning, just gives the contractor a budget and a general idea of the kinds of rooms he wants included before he flies back to Russia to visit his family. The Gonchars have been endlessly kind to him, but Seryozha hasn't been subtle about his hints that Zhenya is no longer a boy, and that a man needs a house of his own. Zhenya still feels like a child, no matter what the age on his shiny new American driver's license says, but he knows how to take a hint. 

He spends the summer drinking, partying with friends he hasn't seen for too long and dodging old teammates that still hold a grudge against him for abandoning them. The contractor occasionally sends him photos of the progress of his house or calls at ungodly times in the morning to ask for opinions, but those are the only times he really thinks of the house that will be waiting for him when he returns. 

Sidney calls sometimes and asks Zhenya what he's doing and if he's training and tells him about the creature that has moved into the lake near his family's home in Canada. It's strange talking to Sidney without seeing his face, and the longer he spends away from America, the more reluctant he is to speak English. Sidney doesn't seem to mind that they spend twice as long trying to figure out what the other one is saying than actually saying anything, though, and he's always been nice, if a little weird. Talbo texts him, because Talbo is normal human being. 

He does have to go back in the end. He has one last meal with his entire family, gathered around the table he'd eaten at as a child. He knows he'll see them again, knows that he's still welcome even after all the things he pulled, but he has never been good hiding his emotions, and his mother knows him too well even if he could. She pulls him aside after dinner, while his father and brother are smoking on the back porch, and hands him a carefully wrapped bundle. 

"Your grandfather made this when you were born," she says as Zhenya carefully pulls the layers of cloth free. She smiles fondly as the stern little face of the carving is revealed, its crude gem eyes ginting under the overhead light. 

It's roughly the size of one of his hands, the wood stained dark and carefully chiseled into the shape of a hunched old man curled up in a squat. It's nicer than the one on his parents mantle, the edges smoothed down and rounded, the details of the beard intricate. He can imagine his grandfather at the cottage, whittling in his ancient chair. The sting of missing him hits sharply in that moment, and his mother must feel it as well because she tips her head against his arm and sighs. 

"Yours is much more handsome than Denis' is," she says. "The trial of being the first born son."

"He gets all the nice things," Zhenya says. "It's my turn for a change." His mother swats his arm, but she's smiling as she does so. 

"May he bring you warmth while you are so far away," she says as Zhenya wraps the statue back up. 

This, he thinks as he ties a careful knot in the old, stained cloth, makes him feel more like a man than anything else before; the husk for a spirit to guard his own house, to guard the family he will one day make. He hugs his mother and carefully packs the statue into his carry on bag, padding it as best as he can to keep it safe. 

The first thing he does when he gets back to Pittsburgh is go to the market. He's exhausted, his entire body aching from being cramped into his small seat for too many long hours, his eyes dry and his throat sore from the recycled air, but he can't go to the new house without the right offerings. He leans heavily on the shopping cart as he goes through the aisles, grabbing a few staples to get him through the night before going over to the bakery.

"Most new," he says to the baker, waving at the bread on display. The heavy smell of yeast hangs over them, and either the baker recognizes him or feels extra generous because of his general state of patheticness because she disappears to the back and comes out with a loaf that's still warm through its paper package. "Thank you."

He buys what he needs and then drives to the butcher that Seryozha always used. The heavy smell of blood is much less pleasant than the bakery, but the butcher is Russian and he smiles knowingly as he rounds up Zhenya's order of an unplucked chicken and pig ears. The pig ears are for Geoffrey, who has to spend the night in quarantine, and the butcher throws in an pig's foot with a wave of his hand and a wish of good luck. 

Zhenya has a moment of panic as he approaches the gate that will lead to his new home. The last time he'd seen this place, it had been an empty lot of land. The house looms big in front of him, beautiful from the outside. The landscape has changed dramatically, flowers planted around perimeter of the house and a garden path laid at the back. Zhenya will inspect all of it later, when he doesn't feel like he's going to fall over. 

The kitchen is easy to find. Zhenya unpacks his groceries into the empty refrigerator, carefully laying the chicken on its own shelf to avoid crushing it, leaves his bags on the counter, and spends ten minutes looking for the master bedroom. His mother had been disappointed that Zhenya didn't want anything to do with furnishing the place, but just the idea of tediously looking for couches and chairs and tables and whatever other assortment of things needed to fill up a house had horrified him. 

The bed Alexei picked is perfect, big enough to fit all of Zhenya at least twice over, and Zhenya falls face first into the new smelling pillows and sleeps. 

\---

When he wakes up, Zhenya explores the house. It's bigger than he thought it would be, strange in the way all new places are strange, but he likes the shape of it and Alexei filled each room with things that make them look lively and comfortable. In a month, everything won't be quite so much like a magazine. In a few months, maybe it will feel like it really is his place. 

He texts everyone to let them know he's made it back and then goes back to the kitchen to make a much needed dinner. Zhenya likes to cook, even if he's not necessarily the best at it. He has his mother's recipes and recipes clipped out of magazines and a few printed from the internet, all of them kept in a binder that will one day go onto the little shelf above the oven. For now, he settles on pasta. He can start investigating all the fancy kitchenware later, when he'll have time to actually appreciate it. 

While the pasta boils, he unpacks the little statue from his bag and carefully unwraps it. He carries it into the den, which he thinks will probably be the room he uses most, and sets it in the center of the mantle above the glass-enclosed fireplace. It looks a little out of place amongst all the metal and plastic and brightly colored decorations that fill the rest of the room, but maybe that's not such a bad thing. Zhenya rubs his thumb over the delicate hunch of the statue's back and wonders what it will bring. 

Before he finally, _finally_ gets to sit down to eat, he slices a generous portion of the bread, salts it, grabs the chicken from the refrigerator, and makes his way to the backyard. It's dark outside, but other than a few paving stones and a gazebo that Zhenya had specifically requested be built, the yard is empty. He thinks maybe he'll hang fairy lights over the branches of the trees to light it up. Later. 

He takes a long moment to just sit with his anticipation. This has never been something he thought of much as a child. Deda had been there long before he was born, bound to his father and mother. He had watched over all of them, been kind to Denis and Zhenya like a strange uncle. Zhenya's father had always been a hard worker and a good man, and Deda had rewarded that with good luck and good health. 

He doesn't feel Deda much anymore. He's lived away from home for too long, and he'd never been bound to him. Not the way his father was, with blood and sweat and tears. This is it. Even Seryozha can't call him a child after this. He'll be the head of his own household, responsible for everything and everyone in it. He'll have to answer to his own domovoi. He'll have to do right by the Malkin name or suffer for it. 

He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath to calm his nerves. He's ready for this. He is. 

"Our supporter," Zhenya says as he kneels next to the gazebo. The soil is still a little soft from the construction, easy to scoop up with his bare hands. He digs a shallow hole, lays the chicken in it, and places the salted bread on top. It's been a long, long time since he's seen this done, but it's something he doesn't think he could forget. "Come into this house to eat bread and command your new servant."

He covers the hole again and pats down the loose dirt until the mound is barely noticeable. He expects to feel- something. Some sort of sign that a spirit has heard him, or that something has come, but all he feels is the chill of night wind blowing through the trees around the property. He gives the mound one last pat and goes back inside, tracking dirt all the way to the kitchen. The thought of the domovoi both thrills and terrifies him, and all he can do now is wait. 

\---

Training camp is one of Zhenya's favorite times of year already. He's more confident speaking without Seryozha, and he's much more confident on the ice than he was even at the end of last year. He falls back into the easy routine of staying late with Sidney and a few others and going to lunch with them, catching up on their lives while it's still interesting to do so. 

He throws a housewarming party the night before they fly out to Sweden and invites everyone over to show off. He caters most of the food because he could spend an entire week cooking and still not have enough to feed a hockey team plus wives and girlfriends, but he does make kissel himself and forces everyone to at least try it once. He leaves a small portion of it next to the statue on the mantle with a rolled slice of salted bread and does his best to be a good host. 

"What's that?" Sidney asks when the party has mostly wound down. The guys with kids left pretty early on, but a few people are still lingering around, drunk on both booze and food. Possibly, Zhenya thinks as he looks at the food still on the table, he overestimated everyone's appetites. At least he won't have to cook for a few days. 

"What what?" Zhenya asks. Sidney points to the statute, not quite touching it. The plate next to it is empty, but that doesn't mean anything. "Is for-" Zhenya has come a long way with English, but he doesn't really know words to explain something as old and as magic as a domovoi. "Protect. Watch house, watch dog, watch family." 

"Like a guardian?" Sidney asks. He's studying the statue carefully, still not quite touching it, and Zhenya wants to laugh. Superstitious Sidney. Of course he wouldn't touch someone else's relic without permission. 

"Guardian, yes," Zhenya says. It's close enough. "Can touch. Is okay. My dedushka make." Sidney still hesitates before letting his fingers coast gently over the little figure's head, across the eyes that glint in the firelight. Zhenya shivers at a burst of cold air from the open windows and turns the knob on the edge of the fireplace to make the fire burn hotter. 

"It's- it's pretty," Sidney says. He sounds sincere because Sidney Crosby doesn't know how to do anything but absolutely sincerely. It will get his heart broken one day, but Zhenya is endeared by it nonetheless. 

"Is a little ugly," he says. Sidney frowns and Zhenya laughs again. "Is okay. Supposed to be." He leaves Sidney staring at the statue and starts cleaning up. 

Shortly after midnight, Zhenya does kick everyone out. Their flight is hellaciously early in the morning, and Zhenya is nearly vibrating with the excitement of _playing_ , last season's crushing end already fading from his memory. Geoffrey curls up with him in bed, overfed and exhausted from running under everyone's feet, and Zhenya cuddles him close, so happy about everything that he could pop.

\---

Geoffrey's barking wakes Zhenya up before his alarm. Zhenya groans and drags a pillow over his head, but that barely muffles the sound. Zhenya tosses another pillow in the direction of the barking, but that doesn't seem to do anything to help either. The bed shakes as Geoffrey leaps onto it, and Zhenya swears as Geoffrey's nails scrabble at his bare chest, sinking into his skin. 

"The fuck are you doing you stupid mutt?" Zhenya shoves him away and sits up, his head already pounding with the start of a headache. It's not the best way to start the day. 

"He's a fighter," a voice says above Zhenya's head. "I like that." Zhenya jerks, which sets Geoffrey off again. 

"Go," Zhenya shouts and Geoffrey whines, hunkering down but refusing to leave the bed. Zhenya's heart is racing, his entire body tensed up as he looks over his shoulder to where the voice had come from. 

There, sitting on the lip of his headboard, is a man the size of a doll, dressed in long pants and a kosovorotka. His wrinkled old face is partially hidden by his long, curly white beard, but his eyes glow in the dim sunlight leaking through the closed curtains. Zhenya's breath hitches and catches. A domovoi. He's come. 

"Hello," Zhenya says. The domovoi kicks his booted heels against the headboard and whistles, the sound like a kettle boiling over. Geoffrey whines again but slinks out of the bedroom, slumped into himself, tail tucked between his legs. "Thank you for blessing this house."

"You may call me Dedek," the domovoi says. He scrutinizes Zhenya for a long, uncomfortable moment before smiling. His teeth look sharp, even if they aren't any bigger than pebbles. "I expect great things from you." It's as much a warning as it is a blessing, and Zhenya feels the chill of it. Between one breath and the next, Dedek disappears. 

It's an auspicious start to the trip, and it carries Zhenya through the long morning at the airport. He takes his usual seat on the plane and thinks of Dedek, of his curse and blessing, and lets his presence stoke the fire burning inside of him. It's a cliche to say that this year will be their year, but Zhenya thinks he can feel it. 

The flight to Sweden isn't quite as long as a flight to Russia, and there are perks of being on a chartered plane instead of being jammed in with the public. Still, everyone spills out of the plane as soon as they possibly can when it lands, all of them anxious and too full of energy to be cooped in any longer. The beginning of the season always starts like this- the whole team turned into little kids- and Zhenya wants to enjoy it for as long as he can. 

The next day, when he finally, _finally_ puts his gear on, surrounded by his teammates and- and _friends_ , he's pretty sure they really are his friends now- he feels like he could go take down Ottawa all on his own. Either his mood is catching, or everyone else is just as excited to play as he is, because the room is raucous and loud and full of laughter before they line up. 

"Let's play," Zhenya says as he thumps his fist against Sidney's. Sidney grins at him, all teeth and bright eyes, and it's like the last piece of a puzzle clicking into place. 

"Yeah," Sidney says. "Let's fucking do it."

\---

They win some, they lose two. Zhenya still gets so angry after losses that he wants to set something on fire. It's an urge he has to reign in when he's at home, because Dedek picks up on his moods, on his own personal wins and losses, and has already burned down a bush, which made the landscaper give Zhenya disparaging looks and cost him a decent amount to replace. 

Zhenya slowly falls back into living in the States. It's getting easier. He can go out on his own without Seryozha, can make very, very basic small talk with the few fans that summon up the bravery to come up to him. He has friends on the team that he can hang out with, and a small group of expats that he gets dinner with sometimes when he's not too busy. He's making a life for himself here, and it's a little scary but also feels right. 

Sidney comes over in the afternoon after an absolute beast of a game in Toronto. He never seems to know what to do with himself when they aren't due at the rink, cycling through different teammate's houses until they kick him out. Zhenya has yet to kick him out and doesn't really understand why the others do. Sidney is good enough at keeping himself occupied if Zhenya has other things to do and never seems to get frustrated when Zhenya has trouble communicating what's in his head into something concrete.

Sidney is strange, but they all are in their own ways. 

"Is this an okay time?" Sidney asks as Zhenya lets him in. He always asks after he's shown up, which seems like it should defeat the purpose, but Zhenya always likes having him around.

"Just watch TV," Zhenya says. "Already eat. You want, you find." Sidney laughs, like that was funny in anyway at all, and takes his shoes and coat off. If anything, Sidney is good for Zhenya's ego. 

"Oh, I have something for you," Sidney says, digging around in his pocket. "I had them split the puck for your two-hundredth point." He thrusts his hand out, smiling sheepishly. As promised, there's half of a puck in his palm, the split side just a little jagged from whatever they'd used to cut it. It's such a stupid thing to be touched by, but warmth blossoms in Zhenya's chest anyway. 

The media still asks him if he and Sidney fight, Russian and Canadian and American alike, and Zhenya wishes he could tell them that this is what it's like between them- split fifty-fifty the whole way. Zhenya takes the puck and rubs his thumb over the rough edge. He could be the number one player somewhere else, if he wanted to be, but he doesn't want to. Sidney isn't a crutch, no matter what some of the uglier people online like to call him, but more like a boost. 

"Thank you," Zhenya says. "I have place for it." Sidney follows him through the front hall to the den and watches as Zhenya carefully places it next to Dedek's statue. It would be a better offering if it had blood on it, but he hopes the sweat and pure, sheer want they'd both poured into getting it will count anyway. "See? Best."

"We'll have to split another one to even it out," Sidney says, fussing with the puck until it's lined up just right with the base of the statue. "Two hundred goals and three hundred points, eh?"

"You chase me and we see," Zhenya says. Sidney laughs again, his face scrunching up and the sound calling Geoffrey out of his midday nap. 

They spend the afternoon on the couch, Geoffrey abandoning Zhenya to curl up around Sidney's legs. Zhenya can feel his anticipation, knows that the burning, aching need to be challenged lives inside Sidney the same way it lives inside of him. The whole year is stretched out in front of them, just waiting to be taken, and Zhenya wishes, not for the first time, that they didn't need to rest- that they could just play all eighty-two games right now, him and Sidney and maybe Flower there to back them up. Maybe one day the rush of it will fade, but right now, he feels like he could take over the world. 

\---

For a month, if feels like Zhenya and Sidney _are_ taking over the world. Zhenya might not being wearing the A anymore- a thing that stings, even if he knew it was only temporary when he took it, even if he knows it's not a judgement on him- but he feels like the knight to Sidney's conquering king anyway. He leaves clippings of newspapers calling them a monster on the mantle underneath the half of the puck, keeps a tally in chalk of his points on the inside grate of the fireplace and leaves bread and salt and blood when it's been drawn from him. 

"Great things," Dedek says to him at night, his sharp teeth exposed. His blessings are small but not to be taken for granted. There may not be warfare in the same way of his ancestors, but Dedek and his kind are pleased with a fight, and Zhenya is nothing if not a fighter. 

And just as suddenly, the floor goes out from under them. They can't win to save their lives. Each game makes Zhenya's blood boil and his skin crawl. Sidney's eyes go tight at the corners, and his usual carefree smiles and easily given laughter fade until they're gone entirely. The injuries are building and building, each new day leaving someone else vacant-eyed and angry on the sidelines. Zhenya is _trying_. He's giving everything he can, and Sidney is right there with him, but two players aren't a team on their own. 

Zhenya stops replacing the burned down bushes. 

"I don't know what to do," Sidney says, slumped on Zhenya's couch after yet another loss. They'd both scored. It hadn't been enough. For the first time ever, when Sidney had shown up at his door, Zhenya had wanted to turn him away. Instead, he'd swallowed the ugly, mean part of him begging to be let out and broken out the whiskey. "I don't- How the hell am I supposed to fix this?"

Dedek watches them from a rafter in the ceiling, his eyes as hot as the flames in the fireplace. It never goes out these days, even when Zhenya turns the gas off and throws water on it. He worries, sometimes, that it will consume the entire house while he sleeps and take him with it. Dedek expects great things from him, requires them, and Zhenya can't give them to him. Blessing and curse.

"You lead," Zhenya says. "You lead, we follow." It sounds harsher than he means it to. Sidney has clearly, _clearly_ been giving every last bit of himself to the team, on the ice and off. If they really were following him, every last one of them would be on pace for hundred point seasons. Zhenya knocks back what's left in his glass and tries again. "We have meeting. You talk, I make listen." 

"Bully," Sid says with the tiniest hint of a smile. "What do I even say? Do better?" Zhenya shrugs, pours more whiskey for both of them, and raises his glass in a half hearted toast before shooting it. A hangover is the absolute least of his problems. "Alright. Let's do it."

They drink their last one slowly, silent in front of the fire until Sidney starts to tip sideways. Zhenya drags Sidney up to the guest room and dumps him onto the bed. Geoffrey curls up with him, ignoring Zhenya entirely to lick at Sid's cheek. Zhenya considers crawling in with them- the bed is probably big enough, and Sid is just drunk enough that his natural ornery temperament has been offset- but the creeping ugliness of frustration is still too overwhelming for Zhenya to give in. He leaves them there and goes back to the den. 

"What do we do?" Zhenya asks the rafters. A weight settles onto his shoulder, the smell of smoke and ash and copper almost cloying. 

"I suppose you don't want me to wage war," Dedek says. His voice is both tender and terrifying, everywhere all at once. "Life was much simpler when war settled everything. You would have made an excellent warrior."

"No deaths," Zhenya says. He thinks, sometimes, that hockey might as well be war. It's a guilty thought- at the end of the day, hockey is still just a game- but one that plagues him nonetheless. 

"Humans have become so boring in the last century," Dedek sighs. The heat of his body is almost scorching, the thin cotton of Zhenya's shirt barely enough to fend off what he's sure would be a burn. "I will bring you luck for a sacrifice, but I don't think it is you who need the luck."

"Can you give the team the luck instead?" Zhenya asks. It's a dangerous question, but he thinks he still has Dedek's favor. For now at least. Dedek is silent for a long moment. 

"Your blood and his," he says after a long moment. "It will not come immediately. It will not be easy. But-" The sound of his laughter is like a church bell. It sends shivers down Zhenya's spine. "If you are so desperate to risk both of your own luck for this, I can see what can be done."

The weight disappears and Zhenya lets out a slow breath. He's given his own blood, never spilled intentionally, but asking for Sidney's is too much. Zhenya thinks of Sidney sleeping above him, already so worn down. It would be easy to steal blood from him, just a little from an old wound reopened. The thought makes Zhenya's stomach turn. Sidney isn't part of this household, no matter how much time he spends inside its walls, and he owes nothing to it. 

It's unfair to ask him to bind himself to one more place when he's already been stretched so thin. They'll figure it out on their own. 

\---

Sidney calls a players only meeting after Christmas. Zhenya stands behind him, pulled up to his full height like it could intimidate men older and more experienced than him. Seryozha gives him a grim, knowing smile and sits as close to them as he can. He's still injured, hasn't played at all this season, but Zhenya hopes that having at least one vet's support will help. 

Sidney doesn't yell. He stands in front of all of them and asks for their help, asks them to tell him what they need from him to be better. His voice is steady and even as he answers question after question, as he takes unfair lashings about his leadership that make Zhenya's fists clench at his sides. The only sign he gives of being upset at all is the fine tremor of his hands that Zhenya can only see because he's so close. He doesn't apologize- which he shouldn't, Zhenya thinks furiously- but he promises to do what he can for each of them. 

"We're a good team," Sidney says when everyone but Zhenya has spoken. A dozen tired faces stare back at him, all of them already worn down. There's still half a season to go. If they can't rally now, they never will. "We are a _good team_. We can win. We _have_ won, and we _will_ win again. What's already happened doesn't matter. It's over. If all of us go into every game together, we will be unstoppable. I promise."

Some guys stay after to talk to Sidney one-on-one, but most of them leave, silent and grim-faced. Zhenya wants to yell at all of them. They're only halfway there. There's so much time to fix everything, and Sidney is trying _so hard_ to be what they need him to be. Seryozha claps Zhenya on the shoulder when he leaves. He doesn't offer any words- Zhenya doesn't know what words could even be offered- but he's behind them. 

"You didn't say anything," Sidney says when the rest of the room has cleared out. He looks completely wiped, the lines around his eyes too deep, the corners of his mouth edged down. He tips his head against the wall, arms folded over his chest, and Zhenya can see his sigh before he hears it. "What do I need to do to make this season better for you? Go easy on me, eh?"

"Nothing," Zhenya says. Sidney cracks open one eye and Zhenya shrugs. "You good captain. Best captain."

 

"G, that's not-"

"No, shush," Zhenya says, leaning back against the wall next to him, butting their shoulders together. He has to think for a moment to get all the right words in the right order, carefully picking and choosing before he's willing to say anything at all. "I will follow you always. Because you work best, you care most, you try most. You my captain. This all I need."

Sidney stares at him for long enough that Zhenya wants to squirm. He means it though. He would follow Sidney into a fire if that was what Sidney needed him to do. Sidney, who is strange and fussy, but also generous with his time and patience. Sidney, who had spent hours showing Zhenya the city, working through the language barrier with the same sort of single-minded determinedness as he shows a tricky drill. He's a good captain. It's not his fault the rest of them are letting him down. 

"Thanks, Geno," Sidney eventually says. He rubs his hands over his eyes and pushes off the wall. "Let's- Do you want to get some lunch?" It's an incredibly Sidney way to deal with his feelings, but Zhenya doesn't call him on it. 

\---

Zhenya hosts a New Years party at his house. There are still a few tender feelings freshly prodded at, still a few people he looks at and wants to hit, teammate or no, but he swallows that down and invites everyone over. If he's good at anything, it's being friendly, and maybe a little boost in morale is what the team needs. 

He hires a decorator and the same caterer that had done his housewarming party. He doesn't make anything this time, but he buys little trinkets and stuffs gift bags for all the kids. Gena, one of Seryozha's friends, offers to play Grandfather Frost in exchange for a signed jersey and all the caviar he can eat. It's worth the small fortune of imported fish eggs to see the wide eyes of the kids as Gena hands out the gift bags and tweaks little noses. Dedek watches from the rafters, and Zhenya makes sure to keep a glass full of wine out on the mantle for him. 

"How do you say happy New Year in Russian?" Sidney asks when the clock starts inching closer to midnight. His cheeks are pink from wine and whiskey, and Zhenya is sure that he alone ate half the dessert bar on his own. It's the brightest he's looked all month. 

Some people have already left, but there's still most of the team there, some of the friends Zhenya has made in Pittsburgh's small Russian and Ukrainian community. Most of the children have fallen asleep, some of them on the couch and laid out on pillows in the den, some of them in the guest room Zhenya had specifically prepared for them. It's peaceful. It feels almost like the parties of Zhenya's youth. He sees Natalia peeking through the slats of the stairs, and remembers sneaking down with Denis to watch the clock tick over to midnight. 

"С новым годом," Zhenya says. Sidney repeats it carefully, beaming up at Zhenya. It's always endearing, teaching him new words, new phrases. Zhenya is lazy with his pronunciation, doesn't bother trying to flatten out his a's, doesn't care about his accent on w's or h's, but Sidney always tries to match the sounds as best as he can. 

There are no fireworks, the only thing Zhenya is truly upset about, but there is a countdown to midnight, and Talbo kisses Zhenya full on the mouth when it reaches zero. Zhenya laughs and shoves him away. Tanger and Cath are suspiciously absent, and Flower isn't even bothering with hiding exactly how lucky he's going to get when he gets home. Even Sidney just laughs when Talbo kisses him, too, his face gone completely red. He pauses before rocking onto the balls of his feet to kiss Zhenya's cheek. 

"С новым годом," he says again, and it sounds like a promise. To the New Year, Zhenya thinks as he toasts Dedek, still hidden above them, watching over them all. 

Zhenya sees everyone off and isn't surprised when Sidney stays behind to help clean up. Tomorrow, a cleaning service will come to actually make the house presentable again, but Zhenya and Sidney silently tidy away plates and cups, pack the refrigerator with the leftover food, the soft melody of holiday music on the sound system following them from room to room. 

They have one last drink in the kitchen, the lights turned down low and the music finally turned off, before Zhenya sends Sidney to the guest room. Last year might not have gone his way, but Zhenya lets the sweet, sweet call of a new beginning rally him. He's never clung to the past, not in any way that matters, has always kept his eyes and mind forward on the next task, the next thing to be accomplished. Good will come if he wants it enough, and no one has a stronger will than he does. 

"I'll never be able to protect the children if you don't have any," Dedek says from the dresser as Zhenya strips down in his bedroom. His kosovorotka is covered in soot, the red band around its hem turned slightly purple. Zhenya makes a note to have someone come to clean the chimney soon, lest he wake up himself covered in ashes. 

"One challenge at a time," Zhenya says. He crawls into bed, just a little dizzy with drinks, the hour finally catching up with him. He's still young, but there are days where he feels like he just wants to sleep forever. He cracks one eye open at the sound of Dedek's boot heels clicking against the night stand. 

"You couldn't have chosen a nice Russian girl?" Dedek asks. "Russian women are strong. Make strong babies." He comes to a stop in front of the photo frame collage Xenia had given Zhenya as a housewarming gift, crossing his arms behind his back.

There's a photo of Zhenya and Natalia snuggled up on the Gonchar couch, both of them drooling onto the cushions. There's another of Zhenya squashed between his parents, hunched down so all of them could fit into the photo, all of them smiling brightly. There's one from his draft day, where he looks more sick with nerves than anything else, and one of him in Metallurg red. 

There's one of him and Sidney close to the middle. They hadn't been paying attention to whoever was manning the camera, both of them focused on the chess board. Sidney isn't particularly good at chess, but he tries, sometimes makes notes on Zhenya's strategies and asks questions when his need to know finally outweighs his pride. Sidney's hand is hovering over a bishop in the photo, his eyebrows drawn together and the corners of his mouth tight. Zhenya, across the table from him, is leaned back in his chair, mouth half open in what was probably a weak chirp. 

"I suppose he'll do, but I still expect children," Dedek says, tugging at his beard. Zhenya yawns, muffling it into his shoulder. It's almost three in the morning and every inch of him is tired. 

"Who?" He asks. 

"Don't play stupid, boy," Dedek says. He taps Sidney's face with a scowl, his sharp nail clicking off the glass. Zhenya laughs, cutting it off when Dedek's glowing eyes turn on him. "I am an ancient being. Do not question my judgement."

"Okay," Zhenya says. "Okay." For a long moment, Dedek stares him down. He may only be the size of Zhenya's hand, but even from far away, Zhenya can feel the power inside of him, too strong to be contained. 

"I know a Leshy who could steal a baby or two for you, if you can't make them on your own," Dedek offers, apparently placated.

"Please don't steal any children," Zhenya says. "I'll have them one day. I promise." It's dangerous to promise anything at all, but he knows that one day he'll have children to fill this big house with him. He knows it like he knew he would play hockey for the rest of his life. 

Zhenya presses his face into his pillow, blocking everything out, and lets exhaustion take him. 

\---

Sidney sprains his knee before the All-Star game. It's not serious, won't need any drastic measures to take care of, but he's definitely not going to be able to go. A few of the guys razz him about it- too good to go hang out with the lower ranks, too stuffy to party with guys he doesn't know- and Sidney takes it with his usual grace, laughing along with them, but there's tightness around his eyes that doesn't really leave. 

"Hey," Sidney says after they're officially dismissed for the break. He taps at Zhenya's ankle with the toe of his sneaker, motioning him in closer with a tilt of his head. "This is a little weird, but- Could I stay at your place for the break?"

"My house? Why?"

"Mario and Nathalie are taking the kids on vacation, and it'll just be me," Sidney says, not quite meeting Zhenya's eyes. "I can take care of Geoffrey while you're gone and eat all your food so it doesn't go bad." Zhenya snorts. 

"Yes, you do big gift and stay in my house," Zhenya says. He doesn't like the thought of Sidney being alone while injured, but at least Dedek will be there to offer some sort of protection. Dedek, much to Zhenya's chagrin, has taken a liking to Sidney, asking after him if he's been away too long and staring from increasingly bold hiding places when Sidney _does_ come over. "I give to you Malkin jersey. You cheer for me." 

"Thanks," Sidney says around a laugh. "I'll do that. What time do you have to leave tomorrow?" 

"Eight," Zhenya groans. 

On one hand, he's never said no to playing hockey, drinking, or doing both at once. On the other, it's a lot of hurry up and wait and stress when he could be on a beach somewhere, escaping the endless cold. He's going to go- of course he is- but it won't be as fun without Sidney there. 

"I'll have Mario drop me off at seven," Sidney says. He wobbles to his feet, ignoring the hand Zhenya holds out for him, and grabs his crutch. "I'll bring breakfast." 

Seven is officially forty-five minutes sooner than Zhenya had planned on waking up and the look Sidney gives him says that he isn't fooling anyone, but he agrees anyway.

"Sidney is coming to stay for a week," Zhenya says to the rafters when he gets home. He had thought about buying extra food- Sidney, for as picky as he is, eats like a horse and Zhenya still relies more heavily on delivered food than he should- but actually finding and getting out the linens for the guest bed is probably the best use of his time.

Dedek says nothing, but the bread and kompot Zhenya leaves for him on the mantle is gone when Zhenya has finished getting the guest room ready and packing his bag. It'll have to do. 

\---

The All-Star game is fun, even if it isn't a beach in Miami. Zhenya catches up with Illya and the Sashas, plays a horrific game of truth or dare with Luongo and Campbell, and wins the accuracy contest while still hungover. He doesn't call Sidney, because Sidney is a grown man that can mostly take care of himself, but he's still relieved when he checks his phone after the actual game and sees a congratulatory text from him. 

It's followed up as Zhenya is heading back to the hotel with a shaky selfie of Sidney on the couch with Geoffrey sprawled out on his lap. He has the jersey Zhenya left out for him on, the missing C on his chest glaringly obvious. Half of his head is cut off, and Geoffrey must have been moving around because he's part blur. Something in Zhenya's chest twists. Sidney looks like he's made himself at home easily, and Zhenya can't help but think of Dedek's vague blessing. It's- a lot to consider all at once. He saves the photo without replying and puts his phone away. 

When he flies home, the tension from the season slowly comes back over him, mile by mile. He wants the fresh start to be _good_. He wants the team to go back to the start- fresh and giddy with the joy of just waking up every day to play more hockey. He wants the deep creases beside Sidney's eyes to fade and give way to his endlessly cheerful smile again. Zhenya _wants_ , and he doesn't know what will happen if they fail. 

It's still relatively early when he gets home and the flight wasn't long, but Zhenya is bone-tired when he unlocks the front door and drops his bags in the hall. Just a week, and he's missed the warmth of it, the familiar rush of Dedek's presence and the simple comfort of a place he knows inside and out. He wonders what it will feel like to leave for an entire summer. He hopes with all of him that it's a short one. 

Something smells good, filling up the front hall and den. Zhenya follows his nose to the kitchen, where he finds Sidney standing stiff-legged in front of the stove, poking at a pan with a spatula. He throws up his free hand in a wave but doesn't give Zhenya any other acknowledgement. Whatever he's cooking smells like spices Zhenya doesn't remember owning, and the rice cooker is on the stove, set to warm. 

"You stand and cook all week?" Zhenya asks as he rounds the corner. The sauce Sidney is poking at is bright orange, with chunks of what's probably chicken poking through.

"Just for dinner," Sidney says. He reaches down to turn the gas flame off and moves the pan off the burner, letting the spatula rest on the edge of it. He turns- stiff, but he doesn't wince, which is probably a good sign- and smiles brightly. "Hi. Congrats on the win."

"I'm best," Zhenya says. It gets the expected snicker from Sidney and all the gathered weight fades away more quickly than it had come. Even if they have to drag the rest of the team kicking and screaming to the playoffs, Zhenya will have Sidney, and Sidney will have him. "What you make?"

"Butter chicken," Sidney says. "You hungry?"

"Feed me," Zhenya says, because he hasn't not been hungry since he was twelve years old. He looks down at Sidney's knee, still a little swollen but it looks much better than it had when Zhenya left, and reconsiders. "No, sit. I feed you. How is leg?"

They sit at the kitchen counter instead of the dining room table, serving themselves out of the pans. Sidney tells him about his physical therapy and about Geoffrey's exploits, and Zhenya tells him about the truth or dare game and about after-game party. Zhenya's still exhausted, but Sidney has always been easy to talk to- or at, in any case- and he never feels more comfortable in America than with Sidney laughing too much at his bad jokes. 

"I, uh," Sidney says when they've finished eating. Zhenya's been giving Geoffrey pieces of chicken in an attempt to lure back his favor and he looks up, feeling caught like a naughty child. "Dedek introduced himself to me. Is that- is he why your house always feels so-" 

Sidney waves his hand around, which is a poor way to describe anything, but Zhenya understands. His house always feels warm- warm from the fire in the den that Dedek refuses to let be put out, warm from the thousand years of love and protection built into a miniscule spirit. 

"I tell you, he protect house and dog and family," Zhenya says. "You not have spirit for house?" 

"No," Sidney says simply. Zhenya raises his eyebrows and waits. "I guess the serpent in the lake by my parents' house might be good luck, but it's not like it protects the family or anything." 

"Canada saddest country," Zhenya says and Sidney pinches him. "What Dedek say to you?"

"He said you have a deal," Sidney says quietly, the humor fading out of his voice. He glances over Zhenya's shoulder toward the den, but it doesn't matter if Dedek is in the den or the kitchen or whatever plane of existence he lives in when Zhenya can't see him. Dedek knows everything that happens in the house. 

"What you do, Sid?" Zhenya asks, suspicion creeping up his back and sending shivers through him. Sidney doesn't answer right away, still staring at the doorway. Slowly, he pushes up the sleeve of his sweatshirt to show a neat cut at the crook of his elbow, an inch long and already starting to scab over. Zhenya's stomach drops. "Sid."

"If I can help, I will," Sidney says stubbornly, tilting his head back. "I had to do something."

"Sid- Dedek like _god_ ," Zhenya says. "You give blood to _god_. He own you now." His own blood is rushing in his ears, blocking out everything but the thud of his rapidly increasing heartbeat. He hadn't wanted this at all. 

"If I can help, I will," Sidney says again, just as stubborn. He doesn't look concerned at all. All this, Zhenya thinks, for a game. "He hasn't hurt you."

"He's watch my family for years," Zhenya says. He doesn't know if he's more upset that Dedek went behind his back or that Sidney agreed. He can't say Sidney isn't family- it's not a lie, but it's not totally the truth either- and he doesn't know if it's good or bad to have Dedek watching him too, following after him to Mario's or wherever else he may call his own home. 

When his parents got married, Zhenya's mother made sacrifices to Deda. She'd tied herself to both of them forever, for the bright stretches of Deda's favor and the cold, starving times of his ire. Even if she decided to leave his father, Deda would be able to follow her, would still temper her life with his moods. He'll own both of them until they die. 

"You dumb, Sid," Zhenya says. 

"Fuck you, I am not." Sidney rolls his sleeve back down and stands to gather the dishes before Zhenya shoves him back into his chair and does it himself. 

Fine, Zhenya thinks. It's fine. The fire in the den crackles and Zhenya wonders what great- or terrible- things Dedek has in store for them.

\---

Therrien gets fired. Zhenya isn't upset about it. Therrien has been a dick since the moment Zhenya met him, has refused to listen to Sidney's suggestions about the team's play, and has always had a habit of letting his mouth run faster than his brain. Still, a known enemy is better than an unknown one, and Zhenya isn't sure what Bylsma is going to bring with him. 

Sidney shows a willingness to follow him immediately- which either says something about Sindey or about Bylsma, Zhenya isn't sure which yet- and Zhenya does his best to also listen. They're a unified front in everything, bound by the team and blood, and if the rest of the guys don't choose to follow along freely, Zhenya will find a way to make them. 

Either Bylsma was the last thing they needed, or Dedek's luck kicked in faster than anticipated. Seryozha comes back, still old but healthy, and there are still injuries- there always will be, it's the risk they all take- but they aren't limping through each game anymore. They lose a few guys to the trade, gain a few. They begin to _win_ again.

The dark, desperate shadow that's been following all of them has been lifted, and Zhenya feels like he did at the beginning of the season all over again, joyful and young and eager. He thinks he can feel it in Sidney, too, echoing back to him and feeding the team's hunger. 

Sidney follows Zhenya home more often than not these days, endlessly chattering about whatever happens to be passing through his mind at the moment. Mostly, it's hockey, which is easy to follow along with, but the long nights spent with Sidney in the den under Dedek's watchful eye probably have done more for Zhenya's vocabulary than most of his lessons. It feels like Zhenya has always known Sidney, but he actually _knows_ him now, in strange small ways that he hadn't ever expected to. 

Dedek is pleased with the visits. Sidney brings him trinkets sometimes- bits of old, yellowed stuffing that have fallen from his pads, tiny candies shaped like maple leaves that his parents sent him from Canada, the cut out collar from a t-shirt he'd had a nosebleed in- and he always makes a point to say hello, even if Dedek is being childish and hiding from Zhenya for any number of small, petty reasons. 

"Is yours," Zhenya says as Sidney fusses with the placement of the puck he'd gotten from his two-hundred and fiftieth assist. It's taped up and the milestone is written out in Dana's careful, neat letters. It doesn't really match the half puck on the other side of Dedek's statue, but Zhenya isn't the one up in arms about symmetry. "You keep."

"I already have a bunch at home," Sidney says absently before cringing. Zhenya grins. How dare Sidney brag about his achievements where other people can hear him. "He helped me earn it. It's his, too." 

The fire flickers behind the gate and Zhenya sighs. He's going to have to do something really, really good soon to convince Dedek to stay in _this_ house. All the offerings are going to spoil him rotten, and Zhenya's going to come home from the summer to all of his things thrown on the ground or to the garden being entirely ripped up. It's a great, sacred honor, but hosting Dedek is also like having a bratty, bratty child more often than not. 

"You come for hang out with me, or for suck up?" Zhenya asks. 

"Jealous?" Sidney asks. He smiles, crooked and wide, and Zhenya doesn't have to strain to hear Dedek's laughter floating down from the rafters. He's not _jealous_. He just doesn't want to play second fiddle to anyone or anything ever. Sidney glances up before leaning in and whispering, "I still like you best, baby."

It's a chirp- a bad one, because Sidney is as bad at chirping as he is good at hockey- but he says it like it's sweet. Zhenya ignores the twist in his stomach. Sidney is strange and wonderful and Dedek wants Zhenya to have all of Sidney's biologically impossible children, but- 

Zhenya is self aware enough to know that he's flighty and that he's never been a great boyfriend to anyone before, and even if sometimes Sidney does things like call him baby unironically, even if Sidney gets the same too-warm feeling in the pit of his stomach that Zhenya does more often than not when they're together, Zhenya's already asked for too much from him. Sidney deserves to do what he wants, to be cared for carefully, and Zhenya is a selfish man. 

Between himself and Dedek, there would be nothing left of Sidney to have on his own.

\---

Road trips are their own very specific grind. Zhenya doesn't hate hotel rooms, but they've already gotten old quickly and Brooksie doesn't have a lot of patience waiting for Zhenya to gather his thoughts and respond to him, which makes Zhenya nervous, which makes him speak even more slowly. Mostly they watch TV in silence, or Zhenya goes to join one of the card games that are almost always happening somewhere. It's not his favorite thing in the world, but he'd rather be bored in a thousand hotel rooms and get to play hockey than do anything else.

This trip feels particularly lengthy, everything outside of hockey itself dragging on and on. Each day of travel makes Zhenya's body ache, his legs too long for even the chartered plane, and the bus seats are cramped for all of them, especially if they've got seat partners. He misses his dog and his bed and Dedek, and he misses sprawling out on the couch with Sidney during dinner. 

Sidney spends a lot of time with the rookies on the road, keeping them out of trouble and helping them get used to the grind of being a professional. Zhenya tags along sometimes, but he thinks he makes some of them nervous- too big, too good, too foreign- so mostly he just waves them off and texts friends that are still awake instead. It's a well worn routine that works, which is why Zhenya is surprised when Sidney knocks on his door four days into the trip. 

"Hey," Sidney says when Zhenya steps back to let him in. 

"Hi." Zhenya glances down the hall before he closes the door, but it's empty except for the green blur of a pixie flitting around someone's discarded dinner tray. "No pep speech tonight?"

"I think everyone's doing really well without any speeches," Sidney says proudly. He slides his sandals off and sits on the edge of Zhenya's bed, pulling his legs up onto the mattress. "Is it-" Sidney makes a face but doesn't continue, picking at a loose thread in the quilt. 

"Is what?" Zhenya asks. He sits next to Sidney and tries not to feel unsettled about the break in routine. He's not the superstitious one here, no matter what Seryozha says. 

"Is it weird that I missed hanging out with you?" Sidney asks. "Like. It's only been a few days, but I miss being in your house." 

"Is Dedek," Zhenya says. Dedek, calling them back home where they belong. Sidney's given enough blood that Dedek could call to him from the other side of the world if he wanted. Sidney will never be free from that, and all his little gifts aren't making it any better for him. Sidney shrugs.

"Are you doing anything?" He asks, fumbling to pull his recently upgraded phone from his pocket. "I downloaded a chess app if you want to play." 

It's such a _Sidney_ thing to do, Zhenya thinks as he watches Sidney pull the app up. He can imagine Sidney practicing against a computer opponent, squinting down at the screen because he refuses to give in and admit he also needs reading glasses, waiting for the right time to spring his new skills on Zhenya. He makes a small noise of triumph as the digital board loads and hands his phone over so Zhenya can play white. 

Sidney _has_ gotten a little better, but Zhenya still beats him four out of five times. At some point, Brooksie walked in, looked at the both of them sprawled on their stomachs on the floor, Sidney's phone between them, and gone right back out after grabbing his bag. Zhenya barely noticed him, but he does notice when the door opens again and Brooksie tosses Sidney's bag towards them. 

"I'm stealing your room, kid," Brooksie says, and Zhenya expects Sidney to protest, but he just takes Brooksie's key card before flattening himself back out next to Zhenya.

It's not quite like the dozens of nights they've spent in Zhenya's house, but it's close enough that some of Zhenya's jittery homesickness fades away. He still misses his bed and his dog, but Sidney's laugh echoes just the same off these walls as it does at the walls at home, and that goes a long way.

\---

Colby gets traded. 

Colby gets traded, and Sidney gets- Zhenya wouldn't call it clingy, not out loud anyway, but he sticks close to Zhenya's side, more withdrawn than usual. Zhenya doesn't mind standing in between Sidney and the gauntlet of never ending teammates who seem to always need Sidney for one thing or another, but for as private as he is outside of the team, Sidney normally thrives off being with everyone. It's worrying. 

Instead, he spends most of his non-hockey time in Zhenya's den, curled up on the couch with Geoffrey. Dedek takes pity on him and starts returning gifts to him- small, sometimes ghastly gifts that Sidney smiles at and tucks away somewhere. Dedek hasn't given _Zhenya_ any gifts since moving in, but Zhenya can't hold it against Sidney when he looks so miserable most of the time. 

Two weeks into March, Mario pulls Zhenya away from the group of guys playing hacky sack in the hall, killing time before video review. Mario is a nice guy and has never said anything to Zhenya to make him uncomfortable, but Zhenya's stomach still flips as he follows Mario down the hall to one of the offices. The team has been doing well, _Zhenya_ has been doing well. He can't imagine what he's done to, essentially, get called into the principal's office. 

He sinks into the chair in front of Mario's desk, knees pushed halfway up to his chest by the low seat. It doesn't make his nerves situation better. Mario leans against the desk, arms crossed over his chest. Zhenya folds his hands together so he doesn't fidget with them like a child. 

"You're doing really well this season," Mario says. Well, Zhenya thinks, he's probably not being traded. 

"Thank you."

"I won't take much of your time," Mario says. "I'm worried about Sidney, but he's a hard man to find these days. He's been staying with you, correct?"

"Yes," Zhenya says. They haven't really talked about it, Sidney never asked to take over Zhenya's guest room, but Zhenya doesn't have the heart to make him leave. Not when he's been so wound tight. He looks comfortable in Zhenya's house, more free than he does anywhere that isn't the ice. 

"I don't want you to be a middleman," Mario says, resting a hand on Zhenya's shoulder. It feels incredibly heavy, like he's passing the weight of taking care of Sidney on, which is ridiculous. Sidney is a grown man. He can take care of himself. "Just let him know he can come back any time he wants. Maybe the two of you could come to dinner one night. The kids miss him." Mario squeezes Zhenya's shoulder once and smiles gently. He nods at the door and steps away. "Go on. I've kept you long enough."

Zhenya doesn't run away, but he does beeline quickly towards the review room. He doesn't miss the way Sidney's clearly waiting for him before sitting down himself, leaned in close to Zhenya's space. Sidney raises his eyebrows under the bill of his cap and Zhenya shakes his head. 

After video review, after a long, prideful talk from Bylsma, after a catered dinner that they all eat around the table like a bunch of animals, Sidney trails after Zhenya into the parking lot and then into his car. He relaxes as soon as the doors are closed around them, but Zhenya feels like he's wound up to snapping, his hands tight around the steering wheel, his heart thumping fast in his chest. 

"I take you home," Zhenya says. 

"Duh," Sidney says with one of his crooked grins. Zhenya stares at his white knuckles and hears Dedek's voice in his head, promising them glory for just a little more blood. Just a little sacrifice. He shouldn't have left Sidney alone with him, but it's too late now. All he can do now is damage control. 

"No," he says, starting the engine. "I take you to Mario's." 

"Did I do something?" Sidney asks quietly. He watches through the window as Zhenya pulls out of the parking garage, his thumb tapping a rhythmless beat against his knee. 

"You don't do wrong," Zhenya says as carefully as he can. He's never turned Sidney away before, and he can feel why not. A knot is starting up in his chest, pulling tighter and tighter. "You very good guest. Mario is worry, _I_ worry, you know?" It's strange taking the turn to go toward Mario's place instead of his own. He hasn't done it in weeks. A month maybe. He hadn't noticed the time flying by. 

"I'm fine," Sidney says, exasperation heavy at the edge of his voice. "If you don't want me to stay with you, that's okay. I'm sorry. I should have asked." 

"Should ask, yes," Zhenya says, because Sidney is polite to a fault, but he still sometimes forgets the simple things. "But is not why I take you home. I like. I say: you good guest. Good friend."

"But you want time apart," Sidney says. Zhenya can't see his face, but he thinks he knows every beat to Sidney's voice these days, and this is as bitter as it gets. Zhenya wonders, not for the first time, how many people haven't been able to see Sidney's strangeness as a gift. 

"I worry for you, because Dedek," Zhenya says. "You play with him like cat, but _you_ cat." Sidney does look over then, and Zhenya doesn't feel too bad about his failed attempt at a metaphor. He takes a quick glance at Sidney out of the corner of his eye as he takes a turn onto the highway. "You come, you give blood and presents and talk nice with him, but you stay in my house all the time, he _own_ you. Understand, Sid? He _own_ you."

"Does he own you, too?" Sidney asks. 

"Yes," Zhenya says simply. Sidney has no way to understand. He never had a house spirit. He's never had much contact with the folk at all. He doesn't know the price of failure, of bonding himself to something so old and powerful. 

"I don't think I mind," Sidney says. He picks at the ragged front pocket of his hoodie, his eyes hidden by the bill of his cap. 

"I do," Zhenya says, because one of them needs to learn common sense. "We still hang out, okay? I come see you, we play. Is not you." Briefly, Zhenya remembers an ex-girlfriend that had said the same thing- _it's not you, it's me_ \- as if that would take the sting out. From the look of it, it's worked just as well on Sidney. 

Zhenya drops Sidney off at Mario's gate and drives away before he can change his mind. He'll gather up most of Sidney's stuff and bring it over when he comes to visit. One day, Sidney will finally move into his own place, and Dedek will still call to him, but he won't be bound to Zhenya and his house for the rest of his life. He deserves to have a choice. 

"You did a stupid thing," Dedek says as soon as Zhenya walks through the front door. His voice booms through the hall and Zhenya flinches. 

"He's not a part of this house," Zhenya says. He can feel Dedek's eyes on him, but he can't see him. "You can't hoard people."

"I can do whatever I like," Dedek replies. Zhenya drops his gear bag, kicks off his shoes, and goes to the empty, quiet den. He's tired and sore and already misses Sidney's company, even though it's been less than an hour. Maybe, he thinks ruefully, the break will be good for him, too. "I'm trying to help you, you stubborn boy."

"I don't need you to steal children and I don't need you to trap a husband for me, either," Zhenya says. "I'll give you a family one day. It's just not going to be this year, or next year."

"I like him better than you," Dedek says childishly. It stings more than Zhenya thought it could, a direct hit. Not good enough to be the favored son of his own domovoi. 

"I know," Zhenya says.

\---

Zhenya nets his one hundredth point against the Thrashers. The feeling of a goal never gets old, no matter how many times he does it. He yells through the glass at the cheering fans, pounding against it as he's flocked by his teammates. He's gotten five points tonight and he feels like he could get five more at any moment. 

When they get back to the room, Zhenya tries to see the forlorn faces that had been here only two months before, but everyone is yelling too loudly for him to focus. They're almost certainly going to the playoffs. They have another chance to make last year's failure right. Sidney brings him his hundredth point puck and carefully presses it into Zhenya's palm. 

"You're killing it," he says proudly. He squeezes Zhenya's hand and steps back, ducking his head. "You should put it on the mantle. Even it out."

"Maybe," Zhenya says. 

If Sidney had been clingy before, he's almost distant now. He has Zhenya over if Zhenya asks, but he never extends invitations. He takes to sitting with Kunitz and Tanger and Flower more at team meals, which was the whole point of kicking him out, but it still stings. Seryozha isn't kind, per se, but he doesn't complain when Zhenya stops by for dinner more often than usual. 

"I'll see you later," Sidney says and heads back to his stall. 

Zhenya puts his game puck on the other side of Dedek's statue from Sidney's and the half puck behind it. 

"I'm not sorry," Zhenya says, but he still spends all night baking a clumsy loaf of bread that he buries next to the gazebo. 

\---

They win. They win and they win and they _win_. Zhenya has never scored so many goals in his life, and Sidney is chasing close right behind him. The entire team is _hungry_ for each game, and while nothing is ever easy, each victory feels certain from the very beginning. Zhenya can feel it in his soul- they're going to get the Cup this time. They're going to. 

After two weeks of waking up to dirt in his bed and spoiled milk and Geoffrey barking at three in the morning, Zhenya and Dedek come to a truce. Zhenya brings him gifts more often, and Dedek praises Zhenya's accomplishments. It stops being terrible to be in his own house again, but he still spends a lot of time babysitting Natalia. His house is too quiet. 

Sidney scores his hundredth of the season and Zhenya gets his three hundredth career point. It feels like a loop, him and Sidney tied together in a million different ways, but mostly here, doing the thing they both love so fiercely. 

And another loop- Sidney at Zhenya's door, stepping all the way inside before he asks for permission to enter at all. Zhenya closes the door behind him and wonders why this feels so strange now. Above them, Dedek's eyes shine. 

"It seemed right to get this one cut in half, too," Sidney says, pulling a carefully halved puck from his pocket. "Can I just-" Sidney shuffles awkwardly, shoulders hunched up. 

"Come," Zhenya says. "You put on mantle." Sidney relaxes immediately and guilt curdles in Zhenya's stomach. 

Sidney fusses with the altar for five minutes, tidying up Zhenya's gifts and arranging and rearranging the pucks. Zhenya watches him from the couch, his chest aching. When Sidney's finished, he stays facing the statue, his hands braced on the lip of the mantle. 

"I like being here," he says. Zhenya opens his mouth, but Sidney doesn't give him time. "You always make it about your house or Dedek, but I like being here because _you're_ here. I shouldn't have listened to Dedek before I talked to you, but I'm not sorry and I like being bound to your household." 

"Sid-" Zhenya doesn't have any words. He wants to ask if Dedek put Sidney up to this, if he promised luck or health for Sidney's commitment to him. He wants to ask what Sidney means exactly. He does neither. The fire flickers, but Sidney doesn't seem to notice. 

"Sorry," Sidney says. He finally turns around and smiles weakly, his eyes focused just over Zhenya's shoulder. 

"Sid," Zhenya says again. He pats the spot on the couch next to him and Sidney hesitates, but he does sit down. Zhenya carefully lays his hand over Sidney's arm, over the scar hidden by his sweater. His chest feels too tight. Sidney, he thinks, will always find a way. "You pick this? This what you want? Here. Me."

"You're the most loyal person I've ever met," Sidney says. He's staring at Zhenya's hand, his own still in his lap. "You've always got my back, and you're funny and- And I also think you're, you know. Hot."

"Prettiest Penguin," Zhenya says, almost on autopilot. It was one of the first chirps he'd learned in America- make fun of himself a little and become instantly less threatening. It's not a habit he's really grown out of, but he thinks it serves him well. Sidney smiles a little. 

"Yeah," he says. He carefully lays his hand over Zhenya's and holds it there, his skin warm and a little damp. "I should have waited to ask you."

"Yes," Zhenya says, because Sidney _should_ have. But- "I'm glad you do. I want you here with me, too, but only because you want. Not because Dedek make you." He stares at the soft upward curve of Sidney's mouth and tightens his fingers on Sidney's arm. "You not bad to look at, too."

"Thanks," Sidney says around one of those hideous, honking laughs that Zhenya has spent weeks missing. "Does that mean I can start coming over again? I missed you." 

"You come whenever," Zhenya says, and does his best not to laugh when Sidney's face goes pink immediately. 

"Oh my god," Sidney says. He tips sideways, and then he's pressing a sweet, careful kiss to the corner of Zhenya's mouth. Zhenya kisses him properly when he starts to pull away. 

Sidney is a shy kisser, but he follows Zhenya's lead beautifully, and his mouth is so _soft_ , just like it's always looked. He fits the palm of one hand against Zhenya's jaw, his thumb stroking over Zhenya's cheek. It's overwhelming in the best way, a swell of affection and warmth and want filling Zhenya up and over. Sidney. Such a strange and beautiful creature, giving himself freely to Zhenya forever. 

"I still know that leshy," Dedek calls down to them, breaking the moment. Zhenya rests his forehead against Sid's and sighs. 

"I swear to god, don't steal any children," he says. Sidney does pull back then, eyes firmly on Zhenya's mouth. 

"What did you say?" He asks. 'What's a leshy?"

"Nothing. Is not important," Zhenya says. He shoots a warning glare up into the rafters, but Dedek isn't visible. He's probably pleased with himself, Zhenya thinks sullenly. Sidney scoots closer, his entire side against Zhenya's, and well- Maybe Zhenya's pleased with him, too. He'll have to find a good gift to apologize. Later, though. Right now, he has other things to attend to.

\---

They make it to the playoffs. Zhenya will be given the Art Ross to add to the trophy case in the rec room. Sidney moves into Zhenya's house without actually saying he's moving into Zhenya's house. Zhenya decides he's going to need a bigger trophy case for the both of them and isn't really sure where to buy one, but he's got enough money to make someone else do it for him. Three baby magazines and one chewed, ragged stuffed bear appear in various places around the house in incredibly unsubtle ways. 

"Too many pillow," Zhenya says when he walks in on Sidney making the bed. 

They haven't had enough time to do much more than make out and trade rushed handjobs, but Sidney had cautiously climbed into Zhenya's bed the day the first box of his stuff showed up in Zhenya's den, and he's spent every night there since. He's a relentless cuddler, clinging onto Zhenya one way or another while he sleeps, and Zhenya loves it. He doesn't love Sidney's penchant for waking up at five every morning, but it's worth getting to see him sleepy eyed and messy haired first thing each day. 

"Six isn't too many for two people," Sidney says, adjusting the massive pile at the head of the bed. He's wearing Pens sweats that are too tight around his ass and that drag the ground, which means they're probably Zhenya's. Zhenya's wearing one of Sidney's shirts because it was at the top of the clean pile, so he can't complain, even if he wanted to. 

"You don't even use," Zhenya says. Sidney frowns, his forehead creasing, and Zhenya heads off whatever completely logical reasoning Sidney might have by tackling him onto the mattress and laying flat over him. He ignores the stink eye Sidney gives him over his shoulder in favor of brushing a kiss over Sidney's cheek. "Two pillow for me and I'm pillow for you."

"Two for you and one for me," Sidney says, his voice a little wheezy. Zhenya rolls onto his side and gathers Sidney up into his arms. It's always going to be amazing that he can, he thinks. It's always going to be even more amazing that Sidney leans into it, holding him back. 

"Fine," Zhenya agrees, because he'd leave all six there if Sidney really wanted them. Sidney smiles, small and sweet, and tucks his knee between Zhenya's. 

"Are you ready for tomorrow?" He asks. 

Zhenya wishes they would have drawn anyone other than the Flyers to go against first, but he's ready. He already knows it's going to hurt. He already knows he's going to be paying out a lot of blood to the ice, to Dedek. It's just another part of playing that he's gotten used to, one more price for doing the thing he loves, and he's accepted it. He's ready to go now, while the fire in him is still bright from the victory of the regular season. 

"Always ready," Zhenya says, because he is. Sidney snorts and Zhenya slaps his ass. "You ready?" Sidney always gets it worse in Philly than Zhenya does, from the fans and the team both. It makes Zhenya's blood boil in a different way. 

"Always," Sidney repeats with a crooked grin.

Before they actually lay down to sleep, they go to Dedek's altar. The den is so hot that they haven't spent much time in it these days, the fire so bright in the fireplace that they don't even have to turn the light on anymore. Zhenya pricks his thumb with a pin and smears the drop of blood that wells up onto the base of Dedek's statue and Sidney follows his lead right after. 

The altar is tidy, but cluttered with their offerings- Sidney's stuffing and chewed pen caps and blood stained mouthguard next to Zhenya's homemade bread and kvass. When the day has been rough, Sidney spends time at night organizing and reorganizing, throwing away the food Dedek hasn't eaten and replacing the bits of pine branches that have started to go brown. He's better at worshipping Dedek, does it on almost a daily basis, as if he isn't already the favorite. He's good at worshipping Zhenya, too, but that's neither here nor there. 

"Great things are coming," Dedek says from above them. Zhenya doesn't know if Sidney hears the same words as he does, doesn't know if Dedek speaks to him in English or Russian or if he really speaks in a language at all, but he feels the pride in the words anyway, and Sidney's smile splits his face. 

"Thank you," Sidney says. He leans into Zhenya's side and brushes a kiss over his throat. Zhenya wraps an arm around his shoulders and holds him close. 

He thinks about the long, long grind ahead of them and the long road they've left behind them. He already feels victorious, his soul full of his home and his Sidney and the love and ire of Dedek. Win or lose, they're going to do it together. Forever.

**Author's Note:**

> And then they go on to win the Cup, and Dedek rides Geoffrey around like a pony and borrows the neighbor's baby to put into the Cup, which Sid and Geno have to return with shameful faces and the promise of lots of autographs.
> 
> Feel free to come hang out on [tumblr](http://notyourlovesong.tumblr.com)!


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